All Night's Dreaming
by Alowl
Summary: It's all right, Kurosaki-kun. I know what you need." Urahara has a secret. That's nothing new. But it's one he shares with Ichigo - and the teen will need his help before it all comes crashing down. Eventual M; now with side-stories. Holiday Update!
1. Between Creation

And Urahara had been suddenly there, his touch cool and clinical, yet somehow abstractly gentle,slicing through the ragged mess

Disclaimer: No, Bleach does not belong to me; more's the pity. Love the UraIchi pairing; my first time writing it. Tell me what you think; I apologize for any errors; I had a lot of confusion trying to work out the tenses. Warning: Vaizard!Urahara; pet theory of mine I've been waiting to see for a long time.

All Night's Dreaming

_Reistsu imbalance_, he' heard dimly through flayed ears as he writhed uncontrollably on the cool tantami mats, skittish hands darting over his sweating frame in feeble attempts to keep him still. _Hollow;_ he'd heard the word whispered in fearful tones, felt it strike a faint note of recognition. He screamed then, at the endless chatter puncturing the faint desperate barriers he'd erected against the fire seething in his veins.

He didn't remember what happened. There was a faint recollection of battle, of pain and puzzled nausea vanishing beneath the sudden upsurge of unbelievable hunger. Then there was only _now_, an eternal moment of racking agony as he twisted convulsively against a bamboo floor. He screwed his eyes shut, hands clenched tightly into fists as he fought with all his might against the intruder in the depths of his mind. No hollow here; no pale-faced demon rising from a world of glass and steel to taunt him with his weakness. He'd long since beaten that intruder, taking the other's power and making it his own, fusing the two separate parts of his soul into a single cohesive entity.

No. It was _his_ hunger ringing in his veins, catching in his throat as he shivered uncontrollably, frame unable to bear his weight. His appetite, made doubly horrible from the knowledge that it originated within his own soul. His insanity, rising in response to a world that was suddenly unbearably _twisted;_ urges he refused to satisfy wracking his being with depthless hunger.

He snarled weakly at the grainy taste of the others' concern. An unfamiliar sense, yet instinctive to this new being; the faint _sense_ of worry and desperation overlaid with the dim taint of fear. It tasted, he noted absently, like fresh fog and morning wind, like the dusty drawers in empty hallways and slightly unripe oranges. The flavors were addictive; he forgot his pain for a moment, caught up in exploration of the new sensations that taunted him with faint comprehension. There was more; he knew that on a level beyond words, so much more - an infinity of hot rich fear trimmed with curdled rage – and beyond them all, the ultimate subtleties of the constellations of the soul – _No!_

And Urahara was suddenly _there_, his cool hand on Ichigo's cheek a touchstone against the brewing madness lunging through his being. The touch was clinical, assessing, yet somehow abstractly gentle, slicing through the ragged mess of his mind and leaving jagged tracks of purpose. Some measure of rationality returned at the faint pressure of the other man's fingers and Ichigo glanced upwards, black-stained sclera meeting shadowed steel. He froze, feeling his breath catch in his throat, unable to look away as the world contracted to the space of those calm grey orbs.

The writhing maelstrom resurged abruptly with devastating force and he cried out, pain shattering the entrancement of those storm-tossed eyes and making him double over in agonized suffering. The others swarmed closer, the garbled mewls of their concern making him snarl in frustration as he clutched onto his self-control with what was left of his rapidly failing will. He curled in on himself, groaning slightly at the barrage of their worried voices, clamping his teeth shut and refusing to give into the inhuman hunger shuddering through his being, scrambling desperately for something – anything – to hold onto in the midst of his raging turmoil.

Urahara's voice sliced through the tumult; Ichigo almost whimpered in relief at the quiet his words left in its wake. Resting his cheek against the polished wooden floor, he savored the absence of sound; the shopkeeper's voice was crisp and clear, effortlessly silencing the pitiful nonsense sprouted by the others. He was unable to comprehend the meaning behind the words, far too preoccupied with the blissful absence of pain; through the respite was momentary at best, it was still exceedingly welcome. He was vaguely startled when he was picked up bodily by the shopkeeper, two surprisingly strong arms cradling him close as he was carried away from the _(tasty)_ presences he recognized as his friends. Ichigo didn't care what it looked like; he buried his head in the other man's shoulder as he felt the emptiness stir, fingers white as he clung to that calm, gentle voice whispering soft promises (reassurances) in his ear.

_I know what you need, Ichigo. _He shivered as the vibrations flowed over his ear, tasting the resolve within the words with fledgling senses. Something in him responded instinctively to that voice; he had no choice but to believe the other, trapped in a suffocating agony of hope.

Then there was sun and sand and blazing heat and they must have been in the training grounds beneath the shop but none of it mattered anymore. The maelstrom within him blazed as bright as the faux sun in the sky above, a burning whirlwind of hate and hunger and polished scraps of bone shredding his being with primal need. Ichigo was dimly grateful for the distance Urahara had placed between them and the (_food)_ others; the teen shuddered convulsively as the thought was drowned beneath a screaming tide of inhuman instinct. Calloused hands set him down on the packed ground; he looked upward helplessly, feeling his eyes burn gold and black as the hunger twisted and sharpened, focusing on the lone figure of the other.

Urahara had abandoned his trademark grin; his hands were loose and ready at his sides and he watched the younger man with the utmost solemnity. The shopkeeper's absurd hat was nowhere in evidence and his eyes were plainly visible, tainted with an indecipherable emotion as he watched Ichigo cling stubbornly to the last faint vestiges of sanity. The ex-shinigami nodded slightly at the younger man, lips crinkling in a soft smile coupled to infinitely gentle grey eyes.

_It's all right, Kurosaki-kun. Let go._

Ichigo felt the last frayed remnants of his control snap at those soft, soothing words, felt his face contort into a frustrated scream of pure need as he heaved himself upright. Zangetsu materialized in his hands as he darted forwards, feeling rationality and civilization dissolve beneath the burning surge of violent frenzy and endless hunger. It was the ache within his guts that made him take aim at the other man; the emptiness that lingered in his soul crying for something – anything – to make the pain vanish. A hunger beyond comprehension had seized control of his body, made doubly horrible by the inescapable knowledge of its origins from within the depths of his soul. He was helpless to resist the sudden urgings of his appetite even as the dim remainder of his _self_ screamed in protest. The substitute shinigami howled denial even as he swung the massive blade, feeling his forearms strain as he lunged with every ounce of his strength.

Urahara merely looked at him, that same maddening expression of utter calm gracing his features as he watched the changing man. Benehime was suddenly _there,_ a graceful arch of steel humming with unholy bloodlust straining against Zangetsu's shadowed curve. Ichigo looked up, across the sweep of their locked blades

and saw Kisuke's eyes bleed gold.

OOO

They'd fought.

Battle was too mild a word for the furious destruction they'd dealt unto each other. Rocks had shattered beneath the sheer force of their power as unleashed energies snarled and collided. Benehime sang a song of crimson delight and Zangetsu rose to meet her, the crescent blade blazing dark and terrible as surging waves of blood and shadow wrenched the air asunder. Two sets of inhuman gold-on-black eyes met in a frenzy of long-repressed hunger, alien cravings flaring in deadly promise as they clashed. Two predators, perfectly matched, grappling with all their will and all their power their as they tore the sky in two.

Ichigo had felt the laughter burbling out of his soul, clear and brilliant, found it matched by an equally merry chuckle from the former shinigami.

They'd fought and blazed and bled until their zanpakto shivered in weary arms, panting for breath as they eyed the other warily. Urahara was cautious in his approach but no less ruthless, shattered glints of long-dormant savagery shining brilliantly in his eyes. Ichigo, in turn, felt his madness burnished into a single overwhelming desire rising from within his soul, matching his shopkeeper's wild grin with an equally feral smile. They'd paused only for a moment, knuckles white against the hilts of their respective swords before their heartbeats beckoned them to battle, dancing and twirling in a whirl of steel and flame. Neither was able to comprehend or acknowledge the concept of surrender; neither yielded an inch to their opponent as they clashed and parried and twisted from the oncoming blows. Black moon and red crescent twined in violent rapture, shattering the landscape to shards as they met in a fiery cataclysm of elemental force.

They fought until their swords dropped from trembling fingers; the promise of blood and the memory of hunger drove them forward as they lunged at each other in a whirl of fists and teeth. Ichigo had felt faint echoes of claws catch in the other man's flesh; his head flew backwards, fangs snapping wildly as he bit back a hiss of pain from the devastating force of the other's blows. He'd laughed at the sensation, feeling the stranglehold of his inhuman need transmuted into a sharper, more definite urge, seen the same violence glisten in the eyes of his fellow predator. They'd fought and snarled and snapped at each other, caught in the ethereal beauty of their violence as they whirled in a dance of blood and pain and promise.

They'd fought until their muscles were spent with weariness, until they could fight no more.

OOO

Ichigo tilted his head back, feeling the sun on his half-open eyes. Behind him, he could feel Urahara – no, Kisuke now, the fight had given him that much – shift minutely, ragged cloak and torn clothing wrapping softly about his shoulders as the shopkeeper held him close.

He felt – empty. Dare he say – his lips quirked softly– hollow, even. Purged, somehow, from the desire that had caught him in a devastating spiral of hate and violence, his hunger sated – if not quite in the manner he'd imagined. He was empty, filled with a soft, drifting calm that held him bound in an eternal moment of gentle peace. He'd been given what he hadn't even known he needed; felt the madness gnawing on the edges of his perception deftly tamed by two skilled hands.

Ichigo shifted slightly, feeling Kisuke's gaze sharpen in response. He was situated between the shopkeeper's bent legs, sitting with his back to the other's broad chest as the two of them watched the sunrise. A fake sun, true; a facsimile of a dawn – but a sun rise nonetheless. Absurdly comfortable, he impulsively leaned backwards, feeling the steady rhythm of the other man's chest beneath his cheek.

Neither of them spoke, a fact for which the teen was absurdly grateful. The exertion of the past hours had long since sated his newly-won, previously incomprehensible instincts; he was content now to simply breathe and think and _be. _ Urahara had shown him how to indulge in his darker side without degenerating into madness, navigating the byways of bloodlust and carnage with an ease indicative of long practice. The teen could feel the distant stirrings of curiosity, but the urge was faint and detached, dismissed as unimportant in the face of the easy silence binding the two together.

Ichigo squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his fists clench convulsively in the fabric of the other man's haori as he admitted the truth to himself– he was pathetically grateful for the other's presence. There was someone else who understood exactly what he thought and felt; who understood the hunger locked into the matrices of his mind, the savagery embedded now into the very fabric of his being. He wasn't alone. He didn't care much for the how or why – the questions were there, but irrelevant in the face of the simple fact that he _wasn't alone_.

Slowly, tentatively, Urahara – no, _Kisuke's_ – hand came up, settling gently into his hair. The touch was feather-light; he could _taste_ the hesitant concern as the former shinigami wordlessly offered whatever comfort he could give.

Ichigo turned his head, feeling the hand slip from his hair to deftly trace the curve of his cheek with the slightest brush of surprisingly soft fingertips.

Kisuke was utterly still, silently waiting.

Ichigo sighed, and tucked his head into the other man's chest. He closed his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of the other's heart.


	2. Falls the Shadow

Disclaimer: Second part in the series that began with 'All Night's Dreaming'. I don't own Bleach, but I find myself the inadvertent owner of a universe that is rapidly expanding even as we speak. You're welcome to dabble here, but please ask first for permission. My thanks to my gorgeous, wonderful betas! (you know who you are.)

Falls the Shadow

Rukia bit her nails in helpless frustration, casting a glance at the others. Renji was there, tattoos dark against his suddenly pale features. Ishida pushed his glassed up his nose, face fraught with unexpected tension; Chad loomed silently in the background, face blank as he watched Inuoe's glowing hands with uncharacteristic intensity. They'd congregated at the Urahara-shoten; the man himself sat silently on the tatami mats, fan, for once, closed and immobile at his side.

The shopkeeper's face was impassive, his steely eyes as piercing as any blade. They flickered to Orihime's face. "Inuoe-san. Stop."

Rukia's head snapped upwards, eyes wide. She was on her feet without conscious awareness of movement, her own voice joining in the sudden outcry as she shouted angrily at the former captain. Urahara stared back, grey eyes calm beneath the brim of his hat.

"Though your efforts are noteworthy," there was _nothing_ in that calm, still voice as Urahara rose softly to his feet, frame deceptively relaxed, "they are resulting a slightly different outcome then intended." Feet echoed in the suddenly quiet room, the sheer force of the man's presence silencing all debate as he slowly padded forward. "In your effort to reject Kurosaki-kun's injuries, you are simultaneously attempting to eradicate his hollow from existence."

Rukia's mouth opened, the obvious question poised on her tongue, only to be preempted by Renji's rough snarl. "An' how's that a _bad_ thing?" Fingers clenched into tight fists as the scarlet haired shinigami growled, eyes white and wild.

"His hollow is the only thing keeping him alive at this point." The shopkeeper came to stop, gazing down with dispassionate eyes at the writhing heap of fabric and flesh at his feet. "It is part of his soul, part of his innermost being, one of the vital ingredients of his very existence." His voice was almost kind as he turned his gaze to the longhaired girl crouched at his side. "In attempting to reject its presence, you are tearing his very soul asunder. You are _killing_ him, Inuoe-san. Stop."

Inuoe gave a hiccupping little gasp, the warm light of her healing field abruptly extinguished as she jerked her hands backward, face taunt with horror. She shivered, staring with wide eyes at the ex-captain.

Rukia's mouth was dry. She stared up at the tall figure as he examined the body on the floor with mechanical precision. Torturous shivers still wracked the suddenly limp figure, but the violent seizures had ceased, leaving his frame relatively still.

Ichigo Kurosaki lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, one cheek pressed to the wooden slats as he muttered inaudible nonsense beneath his breath. The wracking convulsions that had shaken him had faded with Inuoe's healing light; yet waves of agitated shudders still rippled throughout his frame. His eyes were squeezed shut, hands fisted tightly in the black fabric of his hakama as he writhed slowly, the curve of his neck evident as he tilted his head backwards. The teen's breathing was fast and shallow, his throat working convulsively as he tossed his head from side to side.

Urahara's voice maintained that mesmerizing, almost inhuman calmness. "Your error, in this instance, is thinking of Kurosaki-kun's hollow as something other then himself." The voice was patient, the tone that of a tutor attempting to explain a simple concept to a particularly obtuse student. "It is not. To put it bluntly, Kurosaki-kun _is_ part hollow. It is not a separate being. It is not a parasite, not even a symbiotic entity. It is part of who and what he is, and his repeated refusal to accept that fact has inflicted the majority of the damage which you see before you." He let out a slow hiss of air from between his teeth, shaking his head slowly from side to side as he crouched beside the teen, extending a single hand.

"That – that's not true." Rukia's voice quavered in the abrupt silence, suddenly unsure. "Ichigo – " she swallowed hard. "Ichigo's an idiot, but he's not a hollow. He's not a _monster. _ He, he's _different_ from that – "

"There is no difference!" Urahara's words crackled with sudden emotion. His robes flared behind him like dark wings as he whirled to face the younger shinigami. His eyes narrowed dangerously as he took a deep breath, voice softening to a purr of sheer deadly promise as he all but snarled at the young noble. "There is no difference. Kurosaki-kun is part hollow. That is the simple truth of the matter." He turned back to the figure on the floor, hands reaching for the teen's face.

Ichigo's frame suddenly went tense; the teen gasped for breath as his hands jerked free of his robes to claw convulsively at the air. His back arched in an almost perfect parabola, the pale column of his throat soft white within the shop's shrouded interior. The teen's eyes snapped open and he screamed, voice an eerie medley of insane laughter and choking horror. There was nothing human in the sound. It was a cry of endless, despairing hunger, choked off mid-scream only when the teen clamped his teeth together with audible click. His eyes were wide and unseeing as he writhed on the floor, claw-like nails scoring jagged tracks along the polished wooden beams.

Urahara's hands were relentless as he avoided the desperate, feeble blows from the frantic substitute shinigami. Long fingers wove through the other's frenzied struggles, seizing the teen's face in a vice-like grip even as the teen was buried beneath the other occupants of the room. Numerous hands kept the writhing figure pinned to the floor as Urahara stepped forward, hands clinical as he brought the other's face close to his own.

Blank, glazed eyes stared into the shopkeeper's as the teen writhed on the floor, fingers biting deep into varnished bamboo. Wisps of darkness stained the whites of the younger man's eyes, snatches of night blurring into a monochrome kaleidoscope, merging softly into fierce golden irises. Gold-on-black stated into unyielding gray, long-fingered hands holding the teen's chin in a vise-like grip that refused any compromise.

Urahara held the other's face still, features intent as he scavenged the wild, unseeing eyes for some unknown signifier. He smiled after a long moment, face gentle as he moved forward. His voice was soft but penetrating as he whispered to the other man.

"It's all right, Kurosaki-kun."

The teen snarled like a beast, teeth white in the dull lighting of the shop as he struggled convulsively against the hands that kept him pinned to the floorboards. His face contorted into a caricature of frenzied need.

"Ichigo."

Some measure of rationality returned to the other's eyes; he blinked, violent exertions lessening slightly as he tilted his face towards the older man. Urahara smiled, expression almost wistful as he gazed at the substitute shinigami.

"It's all right Ichigo." He leaned forward, his gaze never leaving the other's face. "I know what you need." Every word was soft and precise, pronunciation perfect. Grey eyes turned to the other members of the shop. "Give him to me."

"What?" Rukia stared up at him from her place on Ichigo's chest, pale face flushed as she attempted to hold down the younger man.

"Let go of him." The eyes were steady. "Give him to me; I know what I'm doing."

"Are you fuckin' _kidding?_" Renji's eyes were wide as he struggled against the snarling _thing_ that had once been his friend.

There was no humor at all in the shopkeeper's smile. "Not in the slightest. Let him go." All traces of the carefree shopkeeper had been thrust aside; it was the former captain of the twelfth division who stood there, innate authority coming to the fore. His voice was as cutting as his blade, filled with an ironclad assurance that could not be denied. "_Now."_

Bodies moved automatically in response to the whip-crack of authority in those words. Bodies scrambled to the left and right before minds even registered their movements, leaving the bedraggled form of the battered figure clear of obstruction. The teen didn't move, body limp as he clutched the jointed floorboards as if they were his only link to reality. His eerie eyes were half-closed, lids hooded as he gazed dreamily off into space, air whistling harshly across his parted lips as he panted softly. Two-toned eyes rose in desperate, mute appeal as Urahara stooped by his side, framing his face with one long-fingered hand.

"It's all right, Ichigo." The shopkeeper crooned softly, gently running his fingers through the other's hair. Kurosaki's eyes closed briefly at the contact, arching up into the touch. "Shhh…" The others watched in mute astonishment as the frantic movements of the teen's chest smoothed into a calmer rhythm.

"Tessai." The aproned man looked up. "We are not to be disturbed." Urahara's eyes were unexpectedly serious beneath the long shadows of his hat. "I don't care if the Captain-General shows up at the doorstep. I don't care if Aizen himself demands my presence. _We are not to be disturbed._" The shopkeeper glanced up, eyes traveling briefly about the huddled circle of fascinated onlookers. "Ichigo's _life_ rides on this. Do you understand me?"

Tessai bowed his head in silent acknowledgment. Rukia swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "What – what are you going to do?" Her voice was unconsciously plaintive.

Urahara bent downwards, arms wrapping around the teen's midriff. With a grunt of effort, he stood, Ichigo's long limbs dangling bonelessly as the shopkeeper hoisted him into his arms. Ichigo's neck rolled limply, body slack as his eyes glazed over once more, oblivious to his surroundings. Urahara turned, carrying the teen bridal-style as he strode towards the door.

Rukia found herself suddenly on her feet, one hand on her sword hilt as she braced herself. "Answer me! Urahara, _what are you going to do!"_

The shopkeeper paused, but did not turn. "What I must."

"That's not an answer!"

Ichigo whimpered at the volume, hands fisting tightly into the worn fabric of the other's robes. He buried his head in the older man's chest, face twisted with pain and something very close to surrender. Urahara bent over the boy, whispering soft words of reassurance before looking up. "It's the only one that you will get from me." The ex-shinigami's voice was uncharacteristically blunt, lacking all of his normal subtleties.

"Urahara-san." Inuoe swallowed, eyes flickering nervously from face to face. "Maybe you should tell us. We want to help…"

"Help?" And Urahara laughed. Not his normal chuckle of light-hearted merriment, but a sound none of them had heard from him before, a dark noise full of long-restrained fury and helpless suffering. The sound belled off of the thin walls, unsettling echoes shivering in the air. The others shrank back. There was madness in that voice. "_None_ of you know what he needs!"

Rukia flinched, but stood steady in the face of that unstable rage. Teeth bared, Rukia snarled back at him, back arched and shoulders squared. "And _you_ do?"

Urahara glanced backwards, meeting her eyes. His grin was – for once – unguarded, full wry humor and tired pain. "I wish I didn't."

And with that, he turned on his heel and stalked into the depths of his shop.

OOO

There wasn't time to be gentle. No time at all to pause and explain to the children who had stared at him with wild eyes, demanding a simple truth and an easy answer. No - there was only a moment in which to act, and a surprisingly thin body in his arms twisting in well-remembered pain.

Urahara set the teen down on the sun-warned rock of the underground training room, well aware that he had been carrying a bomb racing towards what would most likely be an excessively messy detonation. A bomb forged in flesh and blood, true, but a weapon nonetheless, one he'd had a direct hand in crafting. And unlike some others he could name he understood all too well the responsibility entrusted by creation. You forged and shaped them, brought them into being, but you cared for them as well. Because at the end of the day, they were _yours_; you'd made them, and you cared for your own.

Though, in this case, the ex-captain could admit to certain ulterior motives.

Urahara raked his eyes over the shivering mess that he'd claimed once as an honorary student, the body and soul he'd molded into a weapon beyond compare. Power wafted from the huddled form of the other male, twisting the air in a shimmering display that bent the horizon into long curls of light. Shadows twined across tanned skin, their after-images darting lazily across curves of flesh as the teen moaned.

He couldn't believe what he was thinking as he felt his eyes drawn to that pale expanse of skin almost against his will, long-suppressed instincts snarling awake in response to the outlines traced by that terrible darkness. His own little secret; one he'd hidden behind carefully hoarded layers of masks and self-imposed solitude, all too aware of the resulting consequences. He'd managed to live with the gnawing loneliness and the bitter knowledge that this was only his just punishment for his myriad sins. Only what he deserved, only what he'd quite literally brought down upon himself - the familiar litany broke as the teen whimpered in helpless need. Urahara gasped, shocked at the sudden surge of possessive affection as he felt all he'd kept suppressed for years stir in response to the other.

_Kin_, he felt his own shadow snarl, actions beyond his conscious control as it snapped the air with bared fangs. It paused, scenting the wind before curling around the fragile presence on the ground, purring softly at the faint sense-taste of the other. _Mine!_ It whined softly. _Mine?_

A subdued pulse surged from the crumpled form of the teen in answer, the air around him shimmering as if in heat-haze. Urahara closed his eyes, swallowing thickly as he tentatively allowed himself to reach out and _taste_ for the first time in years. It had been so _long_…

_Pain_. Endless, plummeting agony. _Denial. Panic_. _Will-to-protect; _all but vanished now beneath endless waves of _need_. A need that the teen was fighting against with all of his strength, stubborn will still unmatched even as he languished in the grip of primal _hunger_.

And _hope_, faint and thin, a desperate, unshakable belief tied to a laughing flash of green and blond…

_Yours._ The teen breathed it back with every pant of his chest, thrashing from side to side. His lips parted as night-stained eyes sought out the shopkeeper's, desperately compelling. _Yours, yours, yours._ A choked whimper rose from his throat.

Urahara let out a long breath, flexing his hands gently at his sides as he waited for Ichigo to rise. He struggled for a moment, trying to remember how to use his mouth to shape words. "It's all right, Kurosaki-kun." His voice was hoarse. Such a crude method of conveying meaning after the fleeting quicksilver merge of _touch_ and _taste._

The child didn't know what he was doing. He reminded himself of that as he watched the other lever himself to his feet, watched him lean on that overlarge sword of his that never failed to bring a grin to the shopkeeper's face. Ichigo couldn't possibly know what he had promised, what he had accepted; he didn't have the context or the understanding to know what Urahara had offered. And yet – the shopkeeper felt himself smiling softly as the other's face raised to his own, helpless desperation plainly written across his features – the teen had responded to his proposal on a level as subconscious as his own.

"It's all right, Kurosaki-kun." He found himself repeating, surprised to find that he truly meant the words. He smiled, his expression, for once, wholly genuine. "Let go." (_I'll catch you.)_

He felt the other snap, felt the hunger rise in a towering tsunami that submerged everything in a pall of bone-deep instinct that could not be denied. Saw Kurosaki – Ichigo, now - howl in frenzied need and panic. The dark terror of his sword loomed in a curve of black steel as he lunged at the shopkeeper, drowned beneath the torrent of maddened hunger. Saw the teen's eyes plead helplessly with him, faint remnants of sanity screaming in horrified denial.

Benehime sang; their swords locked in a flash of power that made the ground tremble and writhe in pain. Their eyes met over the clash of blades. Kisuke could feel his own hunger stir, saw Ichigo's pupils widen slightly in recognition. _Felt_ the almost subconscious whisper from the sunset-haired teen.

_Mine? _

_Yours._

Kisuke closed his eyes, and let his darkness free.


	3. Interlude: The Bone Yard

"Now, now, Shiro-kun" The laughing whisper bounced off of the canyons of glass and steel

Disclaimer: No, none of the characters/situations/themes etc illuminated in the following are mine – except for Hara. I'm particularly proud of him; I'll download the image a friend whipped up just as soon as _someone_ glares very firmly in the distance downloads it. You know who you are. Feel free to play with Hara; he needs to get out and about more. Just drop me a line beforehand, please.

The Bone Yard

Shirosaki scowled, head tilted backwards as he stared at the mottled sky.

He'd managed to subdue Ichigo for a few precious moments of pain and promise that day, _felt_ his king's resolve shudder into nothing beneath the full force of his inhuman will. He'd roared his triumph, systematically seizing every part of his counterpart's system for his own, sought and swung and struck in devastating efficiency. They'd moved as one, darting and flashing in the instinctual patterns of the fight, revealing in the bloodshed as their foe fell before them with a shriek of pain.

It had felt – Shiro's eyes half-closed in remembrance, a bitter smile gracing his face – _right._ Two halves drawn together, finally, for a single instant, _whole;_ he'd been momentarily free of the gnawing emptiness continuously echoing beneath his skin.

It hadn't lasted, of course. Nothing did, in this strange realm of ever-day. Shiro kicked a window petulantly. He'd felt the fragile connection shatter beneath the sudden surge of Ichigo's will, screamed in helpless rage as he'd been forced back into a realm utterly antithesis to his being, a realm he'd grudgingly accepted as a temporary home. Shiro paused, frame tense. Hollows weren't meant to be caged. He knew that much to the core of his being. There had to be more. There was a world there, just beyond the fragile fabric of the sky… his eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, hands absently snaring the air before him as be probed cautiously. It was so close that he could _taste_ it…

Shiro drew back, a snarled profanity bursting from his lips as the full force of Ichigo's resolve slammed down on him. Pale hands fisted at his sides as the hollow clenched his teeth together and snarled at the air, shaking in helpless hunger, the need so intense he could feel it ringing in his veins. He slammed his mouth shut, absently biting a lip as he glared at the horizon.

"Now, now, Shiro-kun," sudden laughter echoed through canyons of glass and steel. "Temper, temper…"

Shirosaki whirled on his heel, pale eyes wide in an uncharacteristic gesture of fear before narrowing in utter rage. "_You." _Frantic eyes darted from side to side, belatedly noting the wisps of shadow that darkened the perpetual day into twilight. He'd have welcomed the change to his surroundings under any other circumstances.

"Me, Shiro-kun!" The voice positively sparkled with unrestrained mirth, giggling almost as if in response to a private joke. There was something decidedly odd about that double-toned voice. While the perpetual laughter lacing the words was unmistakably genuine, it nonetheless seemed –hollow. It was as if all true mirth was coated in a thick layer of shadow, a dark veil echoing back a crude facsimile thereof. That voice was empty; merciless in its application, and made all the more horrible by the lazy trace of twisted amusement that permeating its tone.

One pale hand clenched tightly around Zangetsu's cloth-wrapped hilt as Shiro's eyes flickered back and forth between the shadows. His response was ground out from between clenched teeth. "Wha' the hell d'ya want, you mangy-haired _bastard_?!"

"Language, Shiro-kun!" The voice bounced from yet another direction, filled with that same insubstantial humor. Shiro whirled on his heel, features intent as he traced the sound, pale hair wafting with the force of his movement.

The hollow's teeth ground together with a crack of chipping enamel. "Tha' fucking laughter ain't fooling no-one, ya moron. Jus' answer the damn question, will ya?"

Eerie laughter echoed in a peal of merciless glee before a gust of warm air whispered across Shiro's ear, the soft baritone of the other vibrating against his skin. "I missed you of course, Shiro-kun." Cold lips pressed into the nape of Shiro's neck; the hollow could feel their soft indentations curl into a smug grin. Soft heat enveloped him as wiry arms wrapped around his torso in a mocking gesture of affection. Shiro stiffened, eyes wide as those clever, agile hands explored his frame with a ruthless abandon.

Ichigo's pale reflection was still in utter shock for precisely three seconds before he exploded. "WHAT THE HELL D'YA THINK YOU'RE DOING, YOU MOP-HEADED _BASTARD!?" _Power roared in a flurry of pale flame as Shiro's reisatu flared in utter rage, snarling through the air with an audible hiss of fury. Shiro whirled, murder in his eyes as his power soared. One white fist whistled through empty air as the hollow struck out; he staggered slightly, overbalancing as the press of cool flesh dissolved into shadow.

The other's frame faded into view, coalescing out of dim traces of shadow. Hara's grin was downright perverted as his pale eyes peered intently at the other hollow. It was an expression Shiro was all too familiar with, both from his own experiences and Ichigo's memories.

Hara's face bore a striking resemblance to that of a certain ex-shinigami, precisely mimicking the shopkeeper's features down to the perverted grin. It was Urahara's face, Urahara's frame, that stood before the pale hollow, but dipped in shadow; darkness pooled across the lean, wiry muscles accentuating the hollow's form. It was a polar negative of the ex-captain who raised his head to the sky, laughing in a mockery of humor as Shiro shivered involuntarily. Hara's ebony skin stretched tight against angular features, highlighting the pale glimmers of ghostfire constantly wavering across his flesh. Balefire burned brightly in midnight hair, illuminating the strands with a sickly glow that paled before the cold intensity of his eyes. Hara wore a strangely inverted form of shinigami robes; white hakama topped by a long black coat in an obvious mockery of a captain's uniform. ("It's not as if _he's_ using it, is he?" was all his response the one time Shiro has asked.)

"I was hugging you." The voice was matter of fact, eyes like pitted craters of moonlight widening in a twisted parody of innocence. "Wasn't it obvious?" Two dark lips quirked in a jagged facsimile of a smile. "There there, Shiro-kun, are you feeling well? I've told you before, all this can't be good for your blood pressure." Hara's tone was mockingly playful.

Shiro spluttered, eyes bright with incoherent rage. "We're _hollows,_ ya moron! We don't ha' hearts, much less blood pressure!"

"You used a big word!" Two hands came together as the other clapped eagerly like an exuberant child. "Good to see my influence is exerting a positive effect on you, Shiro-kun!"

"Wha?!" Shiro's rage-glazed eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are not!" A vein twitched at his temple.

"Are too!" The other's voice was playfully petulant, Hara's grin deliberately inflammatory.

"Are not!"

"Are too!"

"ARE NOT!"

"ARE TOO!"

"ARE NOT TIMES INFINITY!"

"ARE NOT TIMES INFINITY PLUS ONE!"

"DUMBASS! AIN'T NO SUCH THING!"

"That was an example of fairly complex analytical reasoning!" Hara beamed brightly, his voice instantaneously reassuming a more comfortable volume. "I knew I was having a good influence on you, Shiro-kun!"

The bleached figure gaped, mouth open in shock. "You – you MORON!" Shiro exploded once more, hands gesticulating wildly in the air as his eyes widened in helpless rage. "Jus' what the hell d'ya want from me?!" The trepidation in his eyes was poorly concealed beneath his fury.

Frost-touched lips widened in response to the faint undertones of fear lacing the other's voice. "Why, Shiro-kun, I haven't the slightest idea what you're implying." Ghost-tinged hair rustled as Hara's white-nailed hand casually paged through his mottled locks. "I'm truly offended that you would even think me capable of such base actions!" Hara's mouth quirked briefly; the wet shine of jet-black teeth was faintly visible between the curves of his lips.

"Tch." Shiro scowled, eyes intent as he stepped cautiously to the side, carefully maneuvering into a more defensible position. The other hollow watched with a faintly indulgent smile; Shiro's eyes narrowed in irritation as his hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. "I know exactly wha' yer capable of, bastard. Don't pull the act; it ain't fooling anyone." Golden eyes betrayed a certain cocky caution as they surveyed the still form of the shadowed figure. "Know ya too well for that; you an' yer other. All you fucking need is a fucking fan to wave around to complete the damn image -"

Shiro barely had time to blink before he was slammed into the ground, a hand at his throat. The wall of mirrored windows buckled beneath the force of his impact; a wave of glass and steel rippling down the sides of the never-ending walls in a scream of twisted metal and spraying shards. Shiro paid little attention to the torrent of destruction, all his desperate attention focused on the relentless fingers slowly working their way into his flesh.

"_Never."_ The voice was stark and cold, stripped of all its faux joviality to reveal a yawning abyss burning darkly terrible as the night sky stripped of stars. "Compare. Me. To. _Him_. Again." Each word was soft, precisely enunciated as Hara's face lowered to Shiro's own.

White-blue eyes lit with a frightening intensity, burning into widened gold as Hara, deliberately, tightened his grip. His power snarled around him, ghostfire as brilliantly cold as the heart of a star. Shiro gasped hoarsely, eyes rolling back in his head as that terrible power snaked along the edges of his skin. Unconstrained fury tamed by the narrowest of margins thrilled through his veins, the gentle touch of jagged edges promising an agony laced with the sweetest touches of a bittersweet pleasure.

"I will take him" The ebony hollow's voice was inexorable, terrible in its utter assurance. "I will wear his skin, and seize his name for my own. I'll _break_ him, and I will not let him die." Shiro shuddered back from the smile that blazed across the other's lips. "I'll leave just a bit of him, a tiny scrap, to sit in the far corners of my mind and _scream_. And you know what I'll do then?" One long-fingered hand idly traced the pale expanse of the hollow's throat. "I'll _laugh._"

"Moron." Shiro wheezed from behind blue-tinged lips. "You'll never beat him," He hissed at the sudden lurch of pain as the other's nails tightened in warning. A sloppy grin danced along the corners of his mouth as he peered into the heart of the shadow. "'S part of you, after all. We ain't never gonna beat 'em" the knowledge danced dark and horrible in his eyes, reflecting the ghostfire that seethed in a brilliant torrent above the shadowed form.

Hara's face was still and cold. Shiro's answering smirk was smeared in blood as dark as the other's skin as he rasped on. "Doesn't mean we can't _try._" The pale-skinned hollow swallowed, eyes closing briefly before meeting the other's savage stare. Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head backwards, exposing the pale column of his throat, eyes half-lidded beneath white-fringed eyelashes.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the fingers clenched around his windpipe gentled, releasing Shiro from their grip. Hara's grin was coldly feral. "True, Shiro-kun." His voice was deceptively soft, still lacking his usual absurd mask of joviality; Shiro shivered at the sound. Hara's smile widened in response, one elegant finger absently tracing the series of mottled bruises blooming dully on the other's pale skin. "I like you wearing my marks." Hara's grin was decidedly lavicous.

Shiro coughed, tilting his head to the side, black blood smearing the unblemished skin of his face. "Sick bastard."

Hara's grin was vicious as he knelt above the other. "You love it." He leaned forward, ghostfire eyes blazing into Shiro's gold. "Admit it."

Shiro glanced to the side. "…yeah." His voice was uncharacteristically soft, desperate hands almost shaking in need as he wound them about the other's shoulders.

"Shiro." Hara's voice was husky as he ran one long-fingered hand along the curve of the other's face; Shiro moaned, head reluctantly turning into the touch. Hara smirked, lowing his face until he could taste the other's breath. Shiro's eyes rolled up into his head; his hips bucked involuntarily as Hara's teeth pressed ever so gently against the pulse point in his throat.

"Don't you fret, Shiro." Hara's voice was full of dark promise. Cool lips pressed softly into the pale skin of the other's forehead, drawing a helpless shiver in response. "Once I win my freedom – I'll be sure to secure yours."


	4. Interlude: Across the Board

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Bleach, or any of the characters etc contained within its works. Now that that's said, I do own this universe, and the character of Hara – you're welcome to play here (Hara needs to get out more) but please drop me a line beforehand.

While I'm on it, my friend, the incredibly talented katamisan has posted a pic of Hara on deviantART. Here's the link katamisan.deviantart. /art/Hara-93642362 Just add the .com after the deviantart when writing in the address.

Across the Board

Urahara Kisuke hesitated, carefully setting the thin chest on the table with the greatest delicacy. Shadowed eyes traced the few faint scratches marring the varnished surface of the plain wooden lid; the shopkeeper pursed his lips and blew, scattering the dust of decades in one noisy exhalation. Deft fingers gently unclasped the simple bronze catch, neatly setting the lid to the side.

Urahara paused, eyes unblinking as he surveyed the two opposing armies arranged upon a checkered board. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted the pristine chessboard from the box, careful not to disturb the precarious balance of the plain stone chess pieces standing at attention on opposite sides of the board. He set it down on the low-lying table, kneeling in one easy motion to perch behind the board. Calloused hands absently straightened a few discordant knights before stilling, settling on either side of the board as the former captain drew in a long, slow breath.

Kisuke raised his head, eyes still hidden beneath the curve of his hat as he turned to face the opposite side of the table. His expression was curiously blank; little to no emotion disturbed the visible counters of his face as he gazed across the board.

"White takes first move." Urahara's words sank into the silence permeating the empty room as he tipped his hat, staring into the shadows drifted through the air.

"_Thank you, I remember."_

A single pawn moved on the table.

Urahara was quick to respond, a black pawn sliding into place with a soft click of stone. The shopkeeper didn't look down, all his attention focused on the opposite side of the board. "It's been a while since we last played." His tone was carefully conversational.

"_Ninety-one years. Nearly a century." _ A dark hand toyed with a chess piece.

"I should have known you'd keep track."

"_How could I not?"_ Soft laughter underlined the words. _"You knew the date as well as I, Kisuke." _The words lingered in the air, rich with twisted amusement.

The ex-shinigami's lips quirked as he inclined his head slightly, as if to acknowledge some small, unspoken concession. His hand moved, black chess pieces nearly dancing beneath his ministrations as they swept across the board with deadly intent. "True, true."

Quiet for a moment, the only sound the quiet rasp of stone against stone, until Urahara's voice shattered the silence. "You'll forgive me if I wasn't quite eager to play with you earlier. After all – you were rather rude, last we talked." A faint smile twitched at the edges of the former captain's mouth.

"_I am never rude!" _The dark voice sniffed, a tone of mock indignation coloring the echoing tones. A knight was waved carelessly through the air in exaggerated affront, overdone outrage clear within his words. _"I am insulted, Kisuke, truly insulted to think that you hold me in such low regard!" _

A bright smile unrolled across the shopkeeper's face, features transfixed with a sudden grin. "My dear – you wound me so!" A fan abruptly appeared, whirling flamboyantly through the air as the blonde wailed dramatically, sleeves flapping. "You cut me to the quirk!" Urahara clutched his chest in parody of an injury. "How could you say such things!" He sniffed, blinking overly wide eyes.

"_Kisuke!" _The voice sobbed, barely-concealed glee clearly permeating its faux sobriety. _"After everything – I thought – I truly thought we had something! How can you accuse me of this, after all we've been through!"_

"Kaisuke!" Urahara spread his arms wide, robes billowing in the air as he stared across the table.

"_Kisuke!" _The other voice echoed in perfect counterpart.

Urahara held the pose for a long moment before collapsing into giggles, shoulders shaking as he convulsed in peals of genuine mirth. His chuckles merged with the soft laughter echoing from the shadows, filling the room with reverberating echoes of amusement.

Eventually, the noise died down; Urahara wiped one hand across his face before returning to the board, broad smile firmly set in place as he settled at the table.

"_I've asked you not to call me that, you know."_ A bishop moved into position; Urahara glanced at it for a quarter-second before turning his eyes away, maneuvering another piece into place with a lazy flick of his fan.

"What, Kaisuke?" Urahara shrugged. "My apologies. Still – " he glanced up, lip wobbling, eyes pathetically wide beneath his bangs. "It's not as if it's a _bad_ name, is it?"

"_It's not _my_ name." _It was a simple response; Urahara accepted it in silence, attention turning back to the chessboard and the shifting battleground of black and white.

Silence reigned for a brief period, unbroken save for the movement of chess pieces. Urahara watched the board with a smile of lazy enjoyment. His eyes were sharp behind his hat, belying the easy confidence of his grin as they darted to the space beyond the black and while squares delineating his world. They were predator-sharp as they met and matched an equally mirthful grin.

"_So the game begins again."_ The dark voice was meditative.

Urahara glanced up. "Yes." They both knew he wasn't referring to the chessboard.

"_It has been a long time since we had a proper opponent." _The other seemed thoughtful; Urahara imagined dark lips pursing into a contemplative frown as pale eyes stared into the distance. _"What are the stakes?" _

Kisuke shrugged. "Only what we have gambled before."

"_And thus the reason for this conversation becomes clear." _The quick movement of white chess pieces never slowed, ruthlessly proceeding across the board. _"You wish my aid."_

Urahara's grin was beguilingly innocent. "I merely wish you to be fully appraised of the situation, my dear Kaisuke-kun." A black chess piece snapped into place, somehow managing to avert the white tide.

The former captain felt the press of unseen eyes. _"You wish me to know that this pretender would threaten those things to which you know I hold some form of attachment._ _You wish me to be made aware that he would think to take from me what is _mine." The word was a hiss of sound. _"You are equally aware that I can not, and will not, allow such a travesty to occur." _A chess piece moved. _"In short, you attempt to force my hand and enlist my willing aid. You forget, my dear Kisuke, that I do know you."_

The ex-captain's grin was devoid of humor, as sharp as his eyes. "Now, now, Kaisuke, would I do something like that?" His teeth shone bone-white as he flashed a shark-shape smile.

"_You are more than capable." _The voice responded dryly. _"I do try to keep abreast of current events."_ It breathed out a soft _whuff_ of laughter. _"I know you far too well to fall for such petty tricks, Kisuke." _

"You forget, Kaisuke, I know you equally well." Urahara's grin was sharp as he tipped his hat to his opponent, sliding his queen forward. He paused for a moment, leaning backwards to admire the slim figure gracing the board. "At least the chess pieces are lovely this go-around. I particularly like our choice of respective queens." His eyes trailed suggestively across the plain, unadorned features of the marker in his hands, lingering briefly in lascivious admiration.

Genuine amusement seemed to echo from the shadows as the two shared a companionable chuckle. _"They are rather adorable, aren't they?"_

"And they blush so sweetly as well! You'd never think it of them." Urahara laughed softly.

"_You can't help but poke them just to see how they spark and fizzle"_ the dark voice chuckled, laughter choking his voice in fond remembrance. _"The explosions are just so, so – "_ it hesitated, searching for a word.

"Pretty?" Urahara suggested.

"_Cute."_ The other voice smirked. _"Of course, you can't tell them that – they'd head off to sulk in a corner for an hour or so if you were even to insinuate such a notion."_

"Too true." Kisuke frowned slightly before a sly grin began to creep across his features. "Of course, it can be incredibly fun to entice them out of their scowling fits…"

"_True, true…"_ The other echoed, a leer plain in the hollow wastes of its voice. _"That pout is adorable in and of itself."_

"It should be classified as a bankai-level power." Urahara chuckled, glancing down at the board. His eyes narrowed. "And with that – check." He moved his bishop swiftly forward, settling it decisively in place.

"_Checkmate."_ The other countered, heavy satisfaction plain in his voice.

"Really?" Urahara's eyes darted to the chessboard, unconcerned. "I don't quite see – oh? That is a clever move." He looked upwards, expression carefully amiable. "I congratulate you. But I think you'll find that my castle here blocks out that move."

"_No, if you look at the position of my knight – "_

"But that's canceled out by my pawn, here, see…"

"_Which is, in turn, neutralized by my bishop –"_

"Which my king holds in check – "

Fingers scattered across the board as the two attempted to unravel the deceptively complex rhythms of check and countercheck before they paused in unison. The two were silent for a moment, both frowning at the board. "It seems to have resulted in a stalemate, Kaisuke-kun."

"_Again."_ The other voice responded petulantly. _"Why must our games always end without a winner?"_

Urahara shrugged. "Sometimes the only way to win is not to play."

Silence. _"You got that from a movie." _The dark voice stated flatly.

"Films hold surprising insight to the deeper truths of life." Urahara muttered, returning to his contemplation of the board. He frowned. "I really can't see a way out of this for either of us. It's truly remarkable, how we always seems to cancel each other out." He shrugged. "I suppose we're too evenly matched for one of us to ever prove predominant."

"_I won't accept that."_ The other voice stated, shadows swirling on the other side of the table as he prepared to depart. _"I can't."_

Urahara's eyes were steady. "Neither would I, were I in your place." He did not rise from his seat at the table.

The knot of darkness paused. Ghostfire eyes were briefly visible, peering down at the shopkeeper through an uncertain weave of constantly shifting shadows. _"By the way, Urahara – I noticed several occasions where you could have easily captured several valuable chess pieces of mine, if only you were willing to give up a single soldier. Why is that, I wonder? You didn't hesitate to sacrifice any of your army – save for your queen."_

The ex-captain simply grinned. "Neither did you."


	5. Holiday Special: Night of Masks

Any number of costume options were available to Kisuke come Halloween

Just a quick ficlet. Not Mine.

Night of Masks

Halloween was fun.

Urahara thoroughly approved of the holiday. A festival endorsing candy, costumes, and mischief – if it hadn't existed, he'd have had to invent it. Very few residents of Soul Society seemed to know of it, despite its origins as a festival meant to honor the dead; an added bonus to his mind.

It would have been ironically appropriate to wear a standard soul reaper outfit and carry Benehime openly at his side. It was a tempting prospect in more ways then one; several shinigami were likely to have heart attacks at such a blatant ridicule of his exile. Benehime might have complained, but her smug approval at the admiration she was sure to gain would be ample compensation.

_Other_ options, however, were also available. It was, after all, the one time of year that monsters openly stalked the streets. He could wear his mask publicly and feel the ceramic grate against his skin as Hara coiled reassuringly behind his eyes, syllabant voice rasping in soft laughter. He could heard the whispers permeating the darkness, and tonight he could follow them, turning his back on Soul Society and walking openly alongside his distant kin. And oh, the looks on their faces as he stalked the streets, predatory intent obvious in every line of his body as golden eyes flared in silent promise…

There was something that most people forget about masks. A mask concealed the face, true – but in doing so, simultaneously allowed the expression the innermost self. A mask hid the self from the world, but it hid the world from the self; allowing the wearer the delusion of freedom.

In the end, Urahara decided to simply go as he was.

It was, after all, the best costume he'd ever come up with.


	6. The Other Kingdom

Disclaimer: Not mine. Hara, however, is, as is the universe of All Night's Dreaming. Other people are welcome to play in this sandbox; just drop me a line beforehand asking permission, okay?

So! Without adieu – the next real chapter in this saga! It mainly acts to connect to the next part of the saga, though, answer a few question, so don't expect that much action.

The Other Kingdom

"How did it happen?" Ichigo's voice was unexpectedly solemn. His bright orange hair was dark from a much-needed shower, falling around his face in damp auburn spikes as he toweled his hair dry.

To his credit, Urahara didn't try to evade the issue. The older man let out a long, slow breath, setting his teacup down gently on the low table. "An accident." He stared at his hands.

Ichigo sat down besides him, expression patient as he waited for the other man to speak.

"I was the captain of my division, Ichigo." His voice was steady, but the shopkeeper's eyes were almost wistful as he gazed into the distance. He paused, gathering his thoughts; his words were careful and precise as he resumed speaking. "The head scientist in the science division. I was – young, then, I suppose is the best way to put it. Not in years, but in other areas." A bleak smile crossed his face. "I was very, very good at what I did, Ichigo, and I always believed it was easier to ask forgiveness then to ask permission."

"The Hougyoko." Ichigo was enraptured, displaying a concentration seldom viewed outside the battlefield as he gave his full attention to the story. His eyes followed Urahara's every move, tracing the faint glimpses of emotion on his drawn features as he watched the other man speak. Despite the intensity of his focus, his eyes reserved judgment as he waited for the shopkeeper to continue.

"Yes." Urahara's hands tightened briefly around his rapidly cooling teacup. He sighed, the sound full of weary regret. "I should never have made it. No one knows that better then I. But the shape, the idea…" for a moment his features lightened as he stared into the distance. "The opportunities it could have offered, the applications – the possibilities were limitless. And it was…" he groped for a word, face frustrated "beautiful, I suppose." His expression twisted in remembrance.

_The fluctuating balance of equations, the sheer skill that it took to navigate the byways of the ultimate puzzle. The Hougyoko, brilliant and serene, a three-dimensional shape existing simultaneously on multiple planes of reality. The riddle, the wonder, the sheer adrenaline rush of discovery as his hands translated the whims of his imagination into a tangible form. The idea sculpting itself from the void, the culmination of his skill and intellect shaped into a glorious absolute. All else a shadow, save for that one concrete that stood supreme among illusion. The sheer exhilaration as he pitted himself against the boundaries of the impossible and forged a way in math and steel through the very storms of chaos, delighted laughter spilling from his throat as he danced in the shifting weave of promise and possibility…_

Ichigo gasped softly and the former shinigami glanced in his direction, distracted. The substitute's eyes were wide, pupils dilated as he panted shallowly, staring at the shopkeeper in something approximating awe.

"Is that…" his voice was touched with something very much like wonder. "Is that what you see all the time?" The teen's voice sounded slightly dazed as he stared at the ex-captain, half-drunk from the other's vision.

The shopkeeper winced, realizing that he'd neglected to re-establish the defined boundaries of his minds after his battle with the younger shinigami. An iron will ruthlessly curtailed any further projection as he clamped down on his errant senses, drawing the silence around him like a shield. "Sometimes. Sorry." He added belatedly.

The teen waved off his apology with an absent gesture of one hand. "It was – beautiful." Ichigo stated hesitantly, staring off into space with wide eyes. His lips parted slightly; Kisuke swallowed, turning away from the sight.

"Yes." Urahara returned to his tea.

Silence reigned for a short time before Ichigo spoke. "The accident?" His expression was controlled once again, voice gentle as he prompted the former shinigami.

"Yes. Well." Kisuke coughed gently. "It wasn't quite an accident. The Hougyoko worked; I'd managed to prove that much at least in the trial runs. It performed beyond my expectations, far beyond what I'd imaged possible. The data I was collecting – it was revolutionary, I had to invent an entirely new system of mathematics just to understand the basic principles of what it was doing. Before long, it was ready for human trials. After all, what kind of a scientist would I be if I refused to test my inventions?" Urahara stared down at his clenched hands. "I wasn't about to ask anyone else to subject themselves to what I would not. And I was sure that it worked." His voice trailed off into silence.

"You tested it on yourself." Ichigo's eyes were wide as he stared at the former captain.

"Yes." His tea was spilling Kisuke noted absently, surprised to find that his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He set the cup down gently, lacing his fingers together in a futile attempt to quiet their shivering. He did not look at the younger man.

A hand settled on his own, the broad palm warm and dry as it slid across his skin, coaxing his fingers to relax. He stared at the hand in stupefied amazement, eyes wide with shock as he followed the arm back to the younger man. Ichigo's face was concerned as he stared into the shopkeeper's dazed features, leaning forwards in an unconscious gesture of comfort.

"Kisuke?" The former captain shivered at the sound of his name on those lips. "Are you all right?" Brown eyes were concerned as they traced the planes of his face.

Urahara swallowed before looking away, eyes sliding to the side. "It's… not something I like to remember all that much." He paused for a moment, cutting off the other's worried glances as he continued, words brusque. "I didn't think it had worked at first; nothing seemed to happen. I gave it a day, nothing; a week, still no results. I put it away, chalked it up as a design flaw, and focused on other areas of interest. Then - " He paused, wincing slightly.

Ichigo leaned forward, fascinated.

"…I started seeing things. I started _feeling_ things. And I started hearing whispers at the edge of my hearing. I thought I was going mad." The shopkeeper's eyes were filled with bleak remembrance, shadowed with the traces of a terrible knowledge. "I realized rather quickly that it _had_ worked." His voice cut off abruptly, resolute tone conveying his refusal to continue the story. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his eyes to the other man's face, nearly crying with relief when the teen's gaze met his own.

Ichigo's features were filled not with hatred or disgust, but with something very close to horrified compassion. His eyes reflected a well-remembered fear, and he gazed at the former captain with an expression that, while close to sympathy, lacked the double-pronged barb of pity. Urahara shivered as he _felt_ the waves of empathy pouring from the teen.

"Stop that." He shook his head. Ichigo started back, expression puzzled.

"Do what? I don't – " his bafflement radiated off of him in tangible waves of emotion.

"That." Kisuke winced, shivering slightly as _concern_ bombarded his senses, piercing the silence he'd woven about him like a shroud. "You're projecting, Kurosaki-kun." He managed a weak smile. "It's rather overwhelming at the moment."

"What? Oh. Sorry." The faint _sense_ of presence withdrew. The teen frowned absently, unconsciously worrying his lower lip. "Still haven't quite got the hang of this."

"You get used to it." Kisuke frowned at his tea. Probably cool by now; he'd have to get another pot.

Ichigo paused, expression suddenly unsure. "Shinji and the others – "

"It's one reason why they're all still together." Urahara cut him off, not wanting to pursue the topic of the other Vaizard any more then necessary. "It's easier if there's someone else around, someone who understands and can reciprocate in turn; it's one of the reasons why they wanted you to go with them." He winced slightly in remembered pain. "As it was, it nearly drove you mad anyway."

"Oh." Ichigo flinched in response. "Guess I should apologize to that pervert when I see him next time." Kisuke couldn't help but laugh at the disgruntled expression on the teen's face.

"Oh, don't worry, Kurosaki-kun!" He found himself smiling, voice bright as he giggled at the pouting teen. "Shinji's done more than enough as it is!" He winked, grey eyes brilliant over the brim of his fan.

Ichigo laughed softly in response, eyes crinkling in genuine mirth, the older man shuddered slightly at the husky resonance of the other's voice. The teen's mirth faded all too quickly, the delicious curve of his lips fading into a more serious expression. Ichigo's voice was unexpectedly gentle as he gazed at the older man. "The other Vaizard, do they know?" _About you;_ the words went unsaid.

"Oh." Urahara's features sobered. "No." He turned his attention back to the table, refusing to meet the other's gaze.

"What – but you guys know each other, right?" Ichigo frowned, confusion plain on his features. "You're obviously not… well, you haven't turned into a hollow, so you'd have had to gone through that crazy-ass ritual of theirs at one point." His expression was disgusted, but faintly triumphant, daring the shopkeeper to disagree.

Kisuke laughed softly; there was no joy in the sound. "Who do you think invented the process they use to dominate their inner selves?"

"Che!" Ichigo grinned feraly, cracking his knuckles, "I should have known.

Only _you'd_ invent something that whacked. That's another one I owe you." Kisuke smiled faintly in response. Ichigo paused, expression softening as he stared at the other man. "Who does know, then?"

"You're the first." And only. Kisuke flinched, an old, old fear rising in his chest. _Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead - but_ _someone else knows._

"What?" Ichigo's expression was flabbergasted as he stared at the shopkeeper. "But – Yoruichi? Tessai?"

Urahara shook his head. "At first, I thought I was losing my mind. I wasn't about to admit that to anyone. Later," his throat bobbed as he swallowed, gazing determinedly into the distance. "Afterwards, I just – I wanted to pretend it wasn't there. That it never happened. It was easier that way." Kisuke shrugged, his perpetual smile miserable.

Ichigo's eyes filled with sympathy; a faint flicker of _pity_ flowed from the younger male. Kisuke drew back sharply, eyes wide as he tasted the bittersweet emotion, desperately clamping down on the hunger rising beneath his breastbone. "Don't!"

Amber eyes filled with puzzlement as the teen drew back, hurt evident on his features. "I said I was sorry. You don't have to bit my head off for it!"

"No, it's not that, I…" Urahara paused, face frustrated as he struggled to bind scattered fragments of speech into a coherent whole. His hands shook slightly, clamping down on the edge of the table in an iron grip as he fought for control. Ichigo frowned, puzzled, before an awful understanding dawned in his eyes.

"You said it's easier with someone else around. Someone who understands." Ichigo's eyes were filled with a horrified realization. "You didn't have anyone, did you?"

Kisuke stared at the table, fingers white. "No."

"Why?" Ichigo's features twisted into a mix of confused horror. "You did this to yourself. You deliberately isolated yourself from everyone who could help you." The teen stared at him, voice rising in something close to indignation as he addressed the ex-captain. "I've only been like this a few months, but I already know I couldn't stand it. Why?"

Urahara let his neck drop as he brought his knees up to his chest in an uncharacteristic gesture of vulnerability. He cradled his head in his hands, letting rough laughter claw its way out of his chest. It was not a pleasant sound; devoid of humor, his laugh was filled with tired pain and ancient need, a need suppressed and compounded until it had rusted into a twisted mass of agony. "Why?" He raised hollow eyes to the other man. "Do you even have to ask?" His grin was bitter; the razor edge turned inwards as he bared his teeth in a savage imitation of a smile.

_Determination. Frustration._ The ochre eyes were firm as Ichigo met his gaze squarely, the tantalizing whips of _taste_ softly bypassing firmly entrenched shields.

Urahara flinched. "Stop that." He jerked his head to the side, determinedly avoiding Ichigo's eyes even as he absently noted that his hands were shaking again.

_Stubbornness. Puzzlement._ Ichigo leaned forwards, features intent as he refused to back down. _Questioning. _

"I – " Kisuke gasped, quaking slightly as he turned towards the teen as if drawn by some irresistible force. Grey eyes went wide as he felt long erected barriers totter, felt the strained recognition as he unconsciously leaned towards the other male. It _hurt_, feeling centuries-old walls crack, feeling the shields he'd clung to for so long shiver in response to the sheer need clawing from the center of his being. "Please – " he panted softly, unable to tell what he was begging for.

_Reassurance. Gentleness._ Ichigo's eyes softened in promise. _Welcome._

The barriers splintered; Kisuke's eyes rolled back in his head as emotions he'd locked away for decades crested and peaked, slamming down like a tidal wave of power. He slumped backwards, vaguely feeling strong hands seize his shoulders before he was swept beneath a wave of sensation so strong he nearly choked.

_Need _was there, that awful terrible hunger; he _felt_ it claw its way up from his stomach, licking its teeth in anticipation of the feasts to come. It wove itself throughout the fabric of his being before slowly working its way up to his jaws; he nearly salivated as the crooning, desperate urge sawed through his flesh in a call he was helpless to resist. Shadows danced at the edge of his vision; faint traces of ghostfire darting across his eyes as he felt darkness stir in the depths of his soul before settling back into an uneasy slumber.

Hunger was no stranger to him these days; he could barely remember when the dull ache hadn't blossomed dimly beneath his skin. He'd wrestled with it on cold winter nights, smiled at it serenely over tea on still spring mornings as he taunted it with miniscule slices of satiation, deliberately baiting it with the promise of fulfillment. No; he'd mastered his hunger long before, though it could never be entirely tamed, taught himself to ignore the starvation gnawing at the edges of his soul.

It was what lurked beyond the hunger, carefully concealed behind layers of enraged _need_ that frightened him so.

The soft _touch_ of Ichigo's gentle projections pierced the howling maelstrom of unleashed hunger, the taste a beacon in the storm. Kisuke turned blindly, fingers groping desperately, driven by the terrible _need_ and focusing on the other with laser-like precision. The shrill urging of his appetite drove him onwards, that and the faint recognition that the one person in the world who could possibly satiate him was just inches away. Rationality and intellect were discarded like so much trash as he lunged forwards, face twisted in despairing need as he strained towards the source of that delicious _presence_ offering an end to his pain.

Soft_ welcome_ greeted him as he fumbled forwards, hands colliding with warm flesh even as his soul slammed into another's.

OOO

Kisuke's hands clenched fruitlessly, curling around broad shoulders as he stared blankly ahead, eyes unseeing.

_Warm._ It was warm; that was his first impression as he burrowed deep into the labyrinth of the other's self, swimming through soft currents of thought and memory as he tangled himself desperately in that sense of presence he could feel around him and about him and within him. Heat enveloped him, a soft groan echoing through the shattered remnants of long-entrenched barriers as he fed ravenously from the overwhelming torrent of passion and will that flowed from that delicious soul. Kisuke shuddered, feeling the soft heat in his veins countering the cold enveloping him in perpetual twilight. It had been so _long…_

Rationality returned with all the subtly of a high-speed freight train as recognition and coherent thought resurged, howling in terrified denial. He choked, sudden fear jolting through him as he backpedaled frantically, automatically reaching for the faint shards of his shields only to feel his hands caught in a firm grasp even as that delicious soul flexed about him.

_Welcome_ blazed out at the former captain, the soft greeting transfixing him more firmly then any kidou. He froze, spellbound by the genuine emotion behind the greeting, hesitantly tracing the undertones of _fondness _and _exasperation_ woven into the swell of thought and will.

The barriers that had long kept watch over his soul were nothing more then shadows; he clutched at them desperately even as his need rose to a siren pitch. Rationality and survival collided as he wailed, torn by the struggle between his instincts and his will. He was vaguely aware of strong hands immobilizing him even as violent convulsions wracked through his frame. Kisuke shook helplessly, clamping his teeth together in mute agony as he felt every muscle in his body contract as his mental turmoil manifested itself on the physical plane. It was a long time before he relaxed into the other's arms.

A hand tilted his head up, and brown eyes met tired grey. _Show me?_

Kisuke shuddered at the warm brush of emotion accompanying that request, closing his eyes in worn surrender as he opened his mind to the presence brushing the edge of his awareness. He would have begged, he would have killed, he would have done anything to feel that touch of heat and reassurance once again; he felt the last tattered remnants of long-entrenched barriers melt and dissolve, helpless before the _taste_ and _sense _of the other.

He could _feel_ Ichigo, a soft sense of _heat/fire/bright_ delicately tracing the layers of his self; Kisuke shivered slightly at the images refracted back to him from the redhead's exploration. _Guilt_ lashed with dull shadows, a constant grinding at the back of his mind laced with the splintered knowledge of his failure. The twisted blueprints of plans and countermoves at the edge of his perceptions responded by wrenching into an alignment he could not allow coming to pass. The stark colors of a chessboard were interspersed with the sharp angles of the chamber of the 46 as they pronounced their sentence; Shinji's face twisted behind a mask as he howled desperately, the low shine off a pair of glasses as Aizen smiled at him beneath the gibbous moon. Grim _certainty_; the dull fetters he'd forced himself to wear, the secrets buried tightly beyond scenarios he prayed would never bloom. His own horrified disbelief as he watched everything he loved wrenched from his hands, felt the cool rasp of ceramic crawl across his skin as he screamed helplessly behind a wash of inhuman _hunger._

And always and above, _pain_, sharp and serene, the only constant in life. Burning, blazing, shadow-born and hungry; a pain that, for a time, even managed to crowd out the lonelinessthat seared him to the soul.

Submerged as he was in the presence of the other, he _felt_ Ichigo's sudden realization. The redhead's hands tightened abruptly, his breathing suddenly ragged; Kisuke whimpered softly, clinging with body and soul as the other flinched backwards.

"You've been punishing yourself." The words dropped from astonished lips; Ichigo stared down at him with wide eyes. "You think this is all your fault."

Kisuke blinked, reality reasserting itself. He was half-lying in the redhead's lap, sprawled across the other's frame as his white fingers dug tightly into the teen's shirt. He couldn't seem to move, and it was suddenly the easiest thing in the world to simply _reach_ out, discarding the clumsy limits of sounds and words. _And is it not?_

"No, it damn well isn't!" The redhead flared; Kisuke whimpered and burrowed closer, greedily drinking down the swell of rage. He was helpless to the surges of the genuine _passion_ he felt emanating from the other, the warm, rich tones flowing through the empty corners of his being into the maw of the gaping emptiness endlessly haunting his footsteps.

_My fault._ He nearly choked at the knowledge, unable to disentangle himself from Ichigo's embrace even as he gorged himself on the teen's presence. _All my fault. _Images flashed through his mind, snapshots blazing with pained intensity; Aizen's smiling face as he stood on the cold stone of the courtroom, Rukia's frantic accusations, the dizzying _crush _of the Espada as they descended on the town. And Ichigo's own face, golden eyes burning in helpless need… _It's all my fault._ The guilt rose in a dizzying flood.

And yet he could not bring himself to tear away from the teen.

_If not for me, this whole mess would never have happened. If not for me, Shinji and the others might still be happy. If it weren't for me, the War wouldn't have started…_

The litany began to repeat itself, the crushing weight of his sins a familiar presence. Urahara closed his eyes, shoving back the darkness he felt caressing the edges of his mind in soft hunger. _If it weren't for me, you might still be whole…_

_Bullshit. _Ichigo's voice sliced through his recriminations, blonde head snapping upwards as his eyes widened in shock. "Aizen's a power-hungry maniac; he'd have found a way to launch his rebellion with or without that damned marble. You were convenient, but he'd have done it without you." Ichigo's voice was full of barely contained outrage even as he tugged the other man closer.

Urahara blinked up at him. _It's – not my fault?_ He paused, hesitantly examining this new idea, rolling the taste of it across his palate.

Ichigo rolled his eyes. "No."

Such a concept was literally inconceivable to the older man; he struggled with the notion, rolling it back and forth as he tasted its shape. He shook his head in frustrated incomprehension, unable to believe.

Kisuke's eyes shot open as he felt the soft touch of the other across his soul. He shivered, fingers cutting into tanned flesh as he tipped his head backwards in an unconscious gesture of submission, eyes clamping tightly together in dread as he waited for the inevitable sentence. He'd experienced this once before when he'd stood in front of a gloating panel of faceless judges, the sentence predetermined. He'd managed to escape by the skin of his teeth, forced to abandon all he knew and loved; he'd survived, lived because the alternative – letting the Hougyoko fall in Aizen's hands – was unthinkable.

But the future he'd struggled so hard to suppress had come to pass, and this time, his judge would have a familiar face. He swallowed, throat bobbing soundlessly. There was no fitter judge for his crime then the young man who sat above him. But - somehow – the thought of Ichigo's face, twisted in stern disapproval, cut deeper then he could have ever believed possible.

"Idiot." Ichigo wrapped his arms about his lanky form, crushing him against a broad chest. He could feel the soft vibrations as the redhead sighed in amused irritation. "Say it." Ichigo's voice held the same note of stubborn defiance that Urahara had previously seen directed against particularly obtuse arrancar. "Say it, you moron." Kisuke hesitantly raised his head to look at the other's face.

He stared, eyes wide at the expression he found there. The look on Ichigo's face would have challenged god himself. The teen's face was twisted in a stubborn scowl of defiance; Ichigo would go to hell and back for his goal, and damn everything in between. It was an expression he'd seen twice before, both times in the training area beneath his shop as he crouched beside a towering edifice of paper and ink, pouring blue-white power into elaborate designs that wrenched a gate in the fabric of reality.

Kisuke had never been looked at like that before. He'd always been the trickster, the maverick who pulled miracles out of thin air, a laughing magician who wasn't really _real._ He'd played the part of a clown for uncounted years, hiding his true self beneath a pile of constructed identities, picking and choosing between various traits in order to make up a believable whole. Urahara had been happy to explore, to experiment with identities as easily as changing his outfit – all in a desperate attempt to conceal the one mask he could never be rid of.

In all his myriad incarnations – he'd never been looked at like that. As if he was worth the risk of saving, worth enough to gamble it all on the toss of the dice, the luck of the draw. He'd never been the focus of such sheer possessive tenderness – as if he was valuable enough to justify tearing the worlds in two. He'd never been looked at as if he were worth protecting. He'd never _been_ worth that much to anyone before.

_It's not – my fault._ He echoed the words slowly, cautiously, letting the subtleties of their meaning linger in his mind.

"Again."

_It's not my fault._ His body bucked involuntarily, trying to twist away from the words and their subsequent implications. Ichigo held him even tighter, broad muscles straining to keep him pinned in place even as the shopkeeper thrashed and writhed desperately against the redhead's touch. "Again." His voice was ruthless, standing in stark counterpart to the gentle _reassurance_ brushing the edges of Urahara's mind.

But – it had to be his fault. Kisuke whimpered softly, muscles straining against the other man as he arched desperately. It _had_ to. Because – because if it wasn't…

"Kisuke." Ochre eyes met his own as a surprisingly soft hand tilted his chin upwards. He stared, wide eyes defenseless in the face of the certainty in those chocolate depths. "_It wasn't your fault."_

Any other voice, he would have scorned. Kisuke would have smiled and laughed and made a pretense of acceptance of those words on any other lips. Except for one. Except for this one, singular voice. Except for this face.

"It's not my fault." His tongue was thick in his mouth as he swallowed harshly. It _hurt_, a dull throbbing like cutting open a festering wound. "It's not my fault?" Quicker this time, easier to say, words spilling out of him even as he felt the very foundations of his mindquake. "It's not my fault!" The world shattered, and he broke with it.

It wasn't his fault – and that changed everything.

"_It's not my fault!"_

The cups flew from the table, the books shivered on the shelves, the framed pictures crashing down from the wall with a crack of broken glass as the captain-level reiatsu _slammed_ outwards, a maelstrom of snarling power buffeting the air in terrible glory. Grey eyes jerked wide open, fingernails digging into Ichigo's back. Kisuke arched in the eye of the storm, teeth bared and roaring as, for the first time in centuries, he allowed himself beyond the crushing confines of his guilt. The darker emotions he'd locked away, chained carefully with enormous effort, spilled forth as he allowed himself to _feel,_ venting the passions that he'd long ago confined to the shadows of his soul.

_Anger_ now, the violent rage riding hard on the edges of this new knowledge, the sheer seething fury at the injustice done to him. The bottomless depths of _betrayal_ as the only home he'd ever known cast him out, ruthlessly invalidating centuries' worth of effort in a few short seconds. The friends he'd thought he could depend on turned aside; the enemies he'd accumulated gleefully claiming his works for their own. _Hate_; his own and the Other's, directed at both the glowering framework of authority and the rot that dwelt within, a rot personified and manipulated by a single smiling figure in a stolen white haori. Fire burned within him, an incandescent rage brighter then the sun, and he turned towards his shadow in savage appeal.

Hara's reiatsu _exploded _alongside his own; the table slammed backwards, cups flying as Kisuke roared his fury, power flaring in waves of pale blue flame intermixed with wisps of ghostfire as he bucked furiously in Ichigo's grip. The teen grunted softly, but crushed the blonde even closer to his broad chest, tightening his grip on the former shinigami even as a lightning-storm of untamed reiatsu snarled across his skin. Black-edged power rose in response to the shopkeeper's anger, tempering the worst of the maelstrom and blunting the force of his rage. Ichigo held on, even as the other screamed, even as the shopkeeper flailed in utter agony, drowned beneath a tumult of power and passion the former captain had thought extinguished centuries before.

Urahara raged, and Ichigo roared with him, the feral grin on the teen's face a perfect match for Kisuke's howl of fury. He could _feel _the redhead beneath his skin like a second shadow as their minds blurred and twisted, soaring together through the rust-stained corridors of his _self_.

Ichigo's soul snarled alongside his own, a predatory glee tasting of white-edged shadows conjuring an answering _pulse_ of darkness from the farthest edges of his being. For once, Kisuke didn't try to resist his shadow, didn't try to push it down, condemn it to a small, carefully cordoned-off section of his soul. This time, he welcomed the hot rage that spread through his being like fire, welcomed the snarling fury that painted his vision red and set his blood alight with vengeance. How _dare_ they chain him, how _dare_ they bind him, how _dare_ they blame him for something that _wasn't his fault!_

And Ichigo screamed with him, amber eyes bright as he watched the shopkeeper finally – finally – purge himself of over a century's worth of poison.

Kisuke turned to him blindly, power flaring with deadly promise as it whirled about him in a maelstrom of rage. Pale eyes met ochre as the shopkeeper buried his hands in the teen's hair before the former captain tugged, mashing their mouths together in one quick motion. Long fingers dug into auburn locks as Kisuke dragged the other man closer; strong arms closed about him in return, smothering him in deliciously hard muscles. The kiss was savage, desperate, tongues battling for domination; Kisuke moaned at the sudden rush of heat through his blood, sound smothered by the other's lips. Hunger met hunger, need met need; they devoured each other, power pouring between them like rain and purring against their skin. The kiss ended only when they ran out of breath, parting with a wet sucking sound as both men gasped for air.

"It's not my fault." Kisuke told the other dazedly, half-drunk with exhilaration as his power faded, faint afterimages flickering in the air like tongues of flame.

"It took you this long to figure out?" Ichigo smiled crookedly and kissed the tip of his nose. "Idiot."

Kisuke laughed softly, eyes bright. "I'm _your _idiot, though. Right, Kurosaki-kun?" His teasing tone didn't quite conceal the desperate uncertainty of his eyes.

"Yeah." A rough hand petted blond hair. "Mine."


	7. Interlude: Prism

Disclaimer – not mine. Simple enough for you? A quick three-shot, focusing on the three sides of Kisuke's personality. Do you know what a prism is? It's a term for a phenomena whereby a single stream of light is separated into its various components…

Prism

**Hara**

Shiro sighed as dark hands idly stroked pale hair, deft fingers combing through the bleached strands. The pale hollow, exhausted after their recent activities, lazily turned his head towards the caress.

"You're supposed to be Ichigo's exact opposite, correct?" Hara's voice was meditative, matching the contemplative expression on his face as he pondered an abstract unknown.

Shiro didn't bother to open his eyes, blindly following those soothing fingers as he moaned his appreciation. His head rested on Hara's chest, muscles flexing under colorless skin as he curled into Hara's form. A rare smile of genuine contentment crossed his features as he all but purred beneath the deft administrations of his lover.

Hara apparently took his moaning as assent. "Then why aren't you female?"

Shiro's eyes popped open. He choked, spluttering as he jerked his head up, glaring at the smug features of the other hollow. ""W-what?"

"If you were Kurosaki's polar negative, your sex would be inversed." Hara's voice was calm and contemplative, eminently reasonable. He smiled down at angry golden eyes, all too willing to elaborate. "As it is – I doubt the opposition is that exact. I must say, though, I do wonder what you'd look like." He paused, eyeing the flushed skin of his lover with obvious appreciation as a grin split his features. There was something extremely disturbing about his smile.

"Whatever you're thinking, no way!" Shiro squawked, yanking futilely at the dusky hands tracing a pattern across his skin, a faint shudder of appreciation shaking his frame even as he writhed against the offending digits.

"Hm." Hara sat up abruptly, a finger to his lips as he yanked his lover up with him. "You must admit that it's certainly an intriguing question." Pale eyes surveyed the irate form of his lover, glazing over in perverse contemplation. Shiro scowled.

Dark lips parted in a toothy grin as Hara smirked down at the debauched body in front of him. "Don't worry, Shiro-kun!" The dark hollow mussed Shiro's hair affectionately. "I like you just the way you are." His face leered in perverse appreciation as he leaned downwards, catching the albino's face between his hands and meeting Shiro's pouting lips in a long, slow kiss.

The pale hollow moaned, fingers twining into dark hair as his lover methodically explored his mouth. Shiro twitched as clever fingers traced the muscles of his chest, giving his nipples a teasing fleck before moving downwards. Shiro sometimes speculated that the other hollow was perpetually doped up on aphrodisiacs; even so, he wasn't complaining.

Their lips parted with a slight hiss of air; Hara releasing the tempting lips reluctantly, nibbling just hard enough to draw blood. He smirked as gold-black eyes followed his movement dazedly, rising to his feet in one fluid motion.

Shiro let out an outraged squawk as he found himself abruptly dumped onto sun-warmed glass. Hara grinned at the sound.

"Don't worry, Shiro-kun!" Hara struck an absurdly dramatic pose, one hand thrust outwards in a gesture of triumph. "I think I know how we can find out!" His laughter trailed off into the distance as a quick whirl of shadows consumed him, the perpetual twilight of his presence vanishing into the scorching heat of Ichigo's inner world.

Shiro's eyes widened as he levered himself up from the ground.

"Wait! Hara? HARA!"

**Kisuke**

Kisuke awakens, trembling, grey eyes ringed (if any were there to see) with black.

Hara is dreaming. It's a rare occurrence – their circadian rhythms are normally synchronous – but not unknown. Hara's complained about reliving their flight from Soul Society often enough, pale eyes unblinking as he smiles. _I was _there_, Kisuke; I don't need to be reminded of the experience._

Sometimes he thinks death would have been kinder.

Hara is dreaming, shadows churning in uneasy waves just beneath his skin, and it is so easy to simply _reach_ out_ -_

_Battle. He spins, red arching from Benihime's blade in a graceful spray of crimson, laughing as his reiatsu flares in violent promise. They are running – To him? Away from him? It doesn't matter; power surges easily to his command as he brings his blade down with punishing force, face fixed in crazed ecstasy as he feels flesh split beneath the power of his strike. They come; faceless figures he might have known once in another lifetime, a horde without end and he delights in the carnage that ensues. They are no match for his strength, and he laughs, tossing his head backwards as the blood runs freely, each death a sacrifice to his hunger._

_And he whirls, and feels his blade catch an on overlarge sword raised in defiance; savage delight ripples through him as he dances, each blow met and matched by a blade bearing an unfortunate resemblance to an overlarge kitchen cleaver. Orange hair bristles in unconscious defiance as the other takes a guard position; he laughs, darting forward. The other is strong, but not strong enough; he ducks beneath his opponent's guard and _twists…

_And they are kissing, savage heat soaring between them as he feels chapped lips submit beneath his own, each soft movement igniting a firestorm of pleasure throughout his system. The body pressing against him is unyielding, even now defying the demands of his hunger. He ignores the futile struggles and crushes the other even closer, grinning in triumph as he feels the hardness pressing against his own. Their tongues lock in harsh competition as supple arms wrap about his neck; he snarls, biting his own tongue and feeding the resultant blood into the other's mouth. Copper and death hit his own palate as his partner reciprocates, the taste only heightening their passion. They pass the blood between them, and he senses the hunger rise as the other laughs into his mouth, feeling lips split in a feral grin. And then they're _both_ laughing, and he raises his head and sees equally golden eyes matching his gaze… _

Kisuke curls in his bed, shivering, and _hungers._

**Benihime**

She had been confused when her master split, his shadow rising from the ground to stand and walk beside him; still, she did not question. She hissed warning when she saw the mask that decorated his features; she was a sword, and her purpose in life was to slay those-who-are-not. Yet this was still her master – her poor, broken master who taught her songs and fed her with the rich heartblood of foes. Twisted though the shadow may be, he was her wielder, and she sang in answer to his call.

Her master _(the one she knew, the one she had killed for and would kill for again)_ was frightened of the darkness that lapped at her heels; she saw the terror that walked beside him. He was afraid that the darkness would take him utterly, that the shadows would stain his face with porcelain that would never part from his skin. She held him close, offering the only comfort that was hers to give as she crooned a song of soft reassurance.

The shadow would not let her touch him; though he was courteous enough, he would not accept her comfort. She saw him on occasion, pacing the boundaries of the land-that-was-hers, his darkness merging with the shadows that had descended the day of their Fall. He knew many songs (of this she was sure) but would not share them with her; in this, he reminded her of the master-who-was, before the sundering.

So she watched her masters-who-were as they struggled and struck and strived, carving out some form of life in this new realm where the air was stained and the blood ran thin and weak. She did not begrudge her existence; though she longed for better game, she contented herself with the meager prey she was offered. Once in a great occasion, her generous master would sate her hunger with his own blood, freely given – she drank rapidly but sparingly on those few occasions, careful least her thirst outweigh her reason.

So they lived for a time, and were almost content, finding a strange form of balance in their splintered existence.

She had been wary when the other sword appeared, long coat twisting in the wind that blew from the east. He was strong; she knew that much from prior trials, and thus worthy of a certain amount of grudging respect even as she demanded the reason for his presence. She accepted the other's silence with ill grace as she watched the borders with narrow eyes, carefully waiting for the slightest movement

She was startled when the sun rose, when the darkness of her land lightened into the pale twilight of the fresh dawn. The shadow had delighted in the change, darting across the border with eager curiosity; she watched, helpless, as he walked where she could not follow.

She felt her master croon that day, purring a soft reassurance to a sunbright child who clung to him in fear.

She heard the shadow sing, weaving power from the air to entrap a snarling phantom who screamed of endless defiance.

Benihime reached across the border, and took the black moon's hand.


	8. Holiday Special: Snow

Snow

Kisuke read the Bible once, shortly after his exile from Soul Society. He'd picked the book up on a whim, and spent an idle afternoon browsing through the text. The former shinigami had been darkly amused by the precepts it espoused; the concepts were promising, but overly idealistic and well-nigh impossible to put into practice.

He'd set the book aside, choosing to concentrating instead on the far more vital concerns of survival. Christianity and its various attendant practices had been relegated to the back of his mind; he'd managed to settle into a routine, tending his shop and keeping an eye open for random shinigami as he watched the years unfold like tattered paper scrolls.

Until Ichigo had barged into his life. Changing _everything._

_Punishment. _The foreign book had talked of it at length. _Redemption. Salvation._ Believe but in me, and ye shall be saved.

And for the first time in long, long years, Urahara Kisuke had something to be thankful for.


	9. Drabbles: Ossuary

AN: I warned you that I'm exceedingly slow with updates. Don't worry, though – there's more to this story yet, and the next chapter's about 80% done. I just need to sit down and write the damn thing… Anyway, this is a series of short drabbles and one shots dealing with the past, the present, and the future as contained within All Night's Dreaming.

Ossuary

*

Ichigo never dreamt the older man was broken.

*

Both Vaizard had dealt with the sudden onslaught of _taste_ and foreign emotion in different ways; while Ichigo had danced on the edge of sanity, Kisuke had simply shut down.

The redhead didn't envy him; he'd lived like that once before, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

*

Ichigo had never regarded Soul Society as his home to begin with; the Seiritei had brought Kisuke nothing but pain.

*

Urahara felt something click into place at the sight of bone-white sands; when Ichigo returned to his arms, he knew he'd finally come home.

*

Hara once commented that if Shiro and Ichigo were truly polar opposites, the hollow should have been female; Shiro's response was exceedingly messy.

*

Sometimes, rarely, Shiro would find Hara standing tall with his face upturned towards the sky.

*

Hara's loathing for Kurotsuchi disturbed Shiro; when pressed, the older hollow would simply grin bitterly before whispering that one of them had to hate.

*

Hara has only ever obeyed one order from Kisuke, during the final battle of the War when Ichigo's bare neck gleamed white beneath Aizen's blade.

_Kill them all_ is not a precise mission statement, but it gets the job done.

*

Shiro remembers every single time Hara's features softened with genuine affection; he still pretends he hasn't noticed the other hollow's weakness.

*

Hara cast a critical eye over the demolished chessboard. "Perhaps, Shiro-kun, we should try poker instead."

*

Shiro's jaw dropped; where the _hell_ had Hara managed to find a kareokee machine?

*

On the very rare occasions Hara and Kisuke were in close proximity to each other, they exhibited a broken symmetryit was almost painful for onlookers to behold.

*

Kisuke was well aware that he was a composite, rather then a whole; memories of his time as a complete individual were becoming increasingly hard to comprehend.

The process terrified him on a level beyond words.

*

Kisuke had been exiled before; this time, he chose to walk away.

*

Kisuke dreamed of white sands and black sky; the training room's decor was his sole concession to the images whispering of _home._

_*_

_Sometimes it's easier to hate_ Hara whispered, and Kisuke couldn't help but agree.

*

It's not affection that links the two hollows, despite outward appearances. There's a tacit agreement between them not to raise the subject. They don't love one another. It's far simpler then that.

They're each other's everything.

*

Hara's loathing of the cold is matched only by Shiro's hatred of the rain.

*

Ichigo tasted of raspberries, of spice and heat and defiance.

*

To the uninformed, Shiro and Hara's sparring appear little more then outright homicide attempts.

*

Kisuke asked Hara once why he treated Shiro so roughly. The hollow simply looked at him oddly before replying that he trusted his lover to survive.

*

Neither Hara or Shiro thought much about marriage; weddings were a human custom, and they already knew they belonged to each other.

*

The proudest moment of Hara's life was when Shiro admitted that he liked belonging to the other.

*

There was one aspect of the marriage that Hara appreciated; Harashi Kaisuke was nice, but he much preferred Shiroha Hichigo.

*

Urahara's gaze was sympathetic but unyielding. "This is what you are now, Ichigo."

*

Ichigo can't help but stare because this was Urahara as he was meant to be, proud and powerful and kind.

*

"_Touch what is mine and die" _Hara snarls, power swirling around him like a storm, and Shiro feels a surge of emotion he has no words for tighten his throat with sudden warmth.

*

Hara carries the shadows with him, and Shiro wonders if he dares to ask if it is by choice.

*

"Teach me". Ichigo snarled from behind clenched teeth. He swallowed, golden eyes blinking rapidly as he looked at his mate. "I don't ever – I don't want – " His expression firmed. "I _will not_ let that happen again."

Kisuke's answering smile was terrifying to behold.

*

Kisuke would have threatened to exorcise Hara if he thought it would do any good.

*

"It was the shinigami", Hara purred, "and not the arrancar, who tried to take everything from us."

*

Kisuke, funnily enough, is a dog person; he gave a full-body twitch the first time he saw Yoruichi's alternate form. Hara is the one who likes cats.

*

Kisuke is terrified of Hara not for what he is or what he promises, but because of what he could become.

*

"_Help me save him" _Hara begs, and their combined power snarls through the air as they dive towards their mate.

*

Hara's rage is a hot, ugly core of hate that is a perfect counterpart to Shiro's explosive fury. He simply knows how to mask it.

*

Kisuke will do whatever he has to in order to ensure Ichigo's safety. Hara will kill everyone he has to in order to keep Shiro safe.

*

Hara rarely shows his face in Kisuke's mirror anymore. He doesn't have to.

*

"Never the end." Hara grinned.

*

Kisuke knows (though he truly wishes he didn't) that Shiro's a screamer. Hara takes a certain amount of glee in informing him.

*

Shiro showed considerable more enthusiasm in learning the waltz after Hara informed him that dancing "was making love to another kind of music."

*

Hara's current nickname for Shiro is "my little screamer". Shiro's efforts at disproving the appellation have merely led to its validation.

*

Ichigo will never admit it, but he was deeply touched when Kisuke started reciting love poetry to him; his awe faded, however, when Kisuke indulged in 'artistic enhancement'.

*

Death's not enough" Hara hissed, eyes bitter. "I want him to _suffer."_

_*_

"You have so much to learn" Hara chuckled into his lover's lips. He drew back with a smirk, licking his teeth. "And I have so much to teach."

*

Hara took Shiro to his own realm once, that tiny, parceled-off portion of Kisuke's soul that he'd claimed as his own.

It had been nothing but shadows; Shiro had stood out like a beacon, his colorless skin and hair standing in stark contrast to the darkness that writhed and churned at his feet.

There had been a vague taste of snow permeating the air, but all else was consumed by the fathomless shadows made up the very fabric of reality.

Hara had blended perfectly into the darkness, an extension of the shadows that wafted through the air; he almost seemed to dissolve into the dusk until all that distinguished him were two brilliant ghostfire eyes staring at Shiro from a pillar of writhing shadow. Hara _was_ his realm, was sea and sky and earth; Shiro was surrounded by his lover, consumed by the shadows that constituted his existence.

And when they fucked, it was as if the night itself were taking him

*

Kisuke stared at his sword, eyes wide.

He'd known there was more to his shikai then the bloodmist and the blazing song that was his to command. But this – _this – _ he had not expected at all. This was power. Old power, cold power, curling beneath his fingers like the heat-death of stars.

_What do you wish of me?_ Benihime purred beneath his fingers, reiatsu chasing the edge of the blade. _I will shatter the night sky if you wish me to. I will crush those who oppose you, sing of their demise and scatter the ashes in warning. Only feed me, Kisuke, only bear me at your side, only call my name, and I shall whisper through the dark to scour the shadows clean. Call my name, and I shall come. Bid me sing, and I obey._

A zanpaktou was a reflection of one's soul, one's essential nature manifested on the physical plane. That much was common knowledge.

What did this say about him?

*

Kisuke has never mentioned it, but Ichigo knows, to the core of his being, that a hollow lurks in the blonde's soul. It's a vague understanding that lurks on the edges of his awareness; whenever he tries to access the knowledge, the redhead is greeted with a tangled mismash of images. Shadows and light and a smile made all the more terrible for its promise of sheer, unadulterated mayhem – an awe beyond measure, a need that transcends simple desire and skirts the boundaries of addiction.

He knows he knows this only because Shiro does. He'd rather not know how his hollow acquired the knowledge.

*

Urahara derives most of his income from the day-to-day business of his shop; despite his reputation, he doesn't sell much to shinigami. It's not economically plausible – few shinigami even know of the existence of the shop, making his business in black-market spiritual equipment less then profitable.

There is a very good reason that Kisuke stocks up on Soul Society merchandise. Specifically, the artificial souls.

He eats them.

On rare occasions, Kisuke will sit at his dining room table, when the children are asleep and he knows that Tessai is elsewhere. He will, very quietly and calmly, take a single sphere from the box on his plate and chew it into shards before swallowing it down.

Then he'll pause, count silently to ten, and repeat the process, ignoring the flaring _need_ that urges him to cram the spheres down his throat. They're paltry fare, stale and unappetizing, but they're one of the few things that blunt the edge of the hunger.

He needs the ritual, if only to keep himself sane.

*

Kisuke once told Ichigo that he'd dealt with become a Vaizard by simply ignoring it.

He lied.

Hara dwelt in the edge of every whispered breath, dancing in the darkness behind his eyelids. Dark hands wound softly around the tendrils of his thoughts, pale ghostfire oddly comforting as it flickered at the edge of his awareness.

The hollow sang to him, sweet songs of death and destruction, the decay of morality and the sky's collapse. Faint tendrils of melody whispered lazily from the depths of his subconscious as the dark-skinned hollow paced the edges of the shopkeeper's awareness, dark fingers tracing the barriers that held him at bay.

Urahara has long since turned ignoring things into an _art form._

Funnily enough, the first time Hara was ever really, truly _quiet _was when Ichigo burst out of the Shattered Shaft, eyes bright with the promise of death and reiatasu lashing with white-tinged shadows.

*

Hara, in some respect, embodies the quintessential qualities of a true Vastoe Lorde. He is powerful, ruthless, amoral, and possesses an extremely warped perspective of reality. Fortunately, for Soul Society at least, he also displays a profound indifference to just about everything that doesn't directly affect him.

Shiro's the one exception. Hara will, quite literally, slaughter his way across half of the creation for the smaller hollow.

Shiro will kill the other half.

*

Urahara's actually a lot stronger then people realize.

Hara is, perhaps, the only person who comprehends this. Despite the hollow's immense power, it was Kisuke who thrust his sword home the day they fought for dominance. Hara has never forgotten that fight, or the extremely narrow margin by which Urahara secured victory.

The fact of the matter is that Urahara spends approximately fifty to seventy-five percent of his total reiatsu capacity actively suppressing his counterpart. He makes up for this deficiency by being extremely creative in his energy expenditure.

Urahara has spent the last century in a near-constant competition with a hollow – as a result, his power has grown exponentially. He hasn't gone full-out in a fight since he left Soul Society.

He's a little afraid of what might happen if he did.

*


End file.
